Putting a Finger on It

Putting a finger on the
moment’s reality.
Lukewarm skin, twisting
turbulence beneath
the ancient death mask
Streets outside sporadically
hum with traffic.
Dragons never sleep.
They are always hungry
always merciless
in their rule.
Visceral swells of a
tortured machine
puttering away at a
more meaningful motion.
Through every doorway
imposters await
a further
quieting of songs.
The momentum changes.
The sacred strangled
by the moans of steelgirders
& glass & tons of
sculpted metal.
The finger now being
used to nervously
light another cigaret.
Too distant a stare
into the future bog
of hours. 

Merritt Waldon is 38, has been writing since he could write. He says it’s the only thing that makes sense to him most of the time.  He lives in Austin, Indiana.